


Scene

by makokitten



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Some BDSM, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Masturbation never was Sherlock Holmes' forte.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scene

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to h3rring for being my lovely beta. Spoilers for "A Scandal in Belgravia."

* * *

            He has all of the equipment that he needs: a small bottle of lubricant, John’s laptop, and his own mobile phone.

            Lubricant should be obvious.  His mobile, too.  Why John’s laptop?  It has all of the files he needs.  Protected with an ever-changing password, of course, but that’s not stopping Sherlock Holmes.  Weak encryption, easy to guess.  Besides, he’s not going to risk giving his own computer a virus over a silly little personal experiment.

            And that’s all this is.  An experiment.  Sherlock leans back in his chair, exhales.  Inhales, exhales.  Nothing to be nervous about, honestly.  Rubs his hands together.  Nervous anyway.  Dammit.  Exhales again, though mouth and nose this time.  Probably should boot up the laptop before he spreads the lubricant on his hand, shouldn’t he?  That would be wise, wouldn’t want John’s computer ruined.  Might get scolded for that, and not—how had Mycroft put it?—“recreationally.”

            Opens the laptop.  Turns it on.  All of these moments pass with astonishing clarity, too slowly.  Every click of the keys reverberates through his tympanic membrane.  John won’t be back from the shops for at least ten minutes, and this shouldn’t take that long.  Not if he’s focused on it.  Need to be careful about that, though, hasn’t done this in a while and his mind does tend to wander.  No, no second thoughts.  Just concentrate.  Just breathe.  Just find the files you need.

            He locates them in two minutes flat. Glances at the phone.  Irene hasn’t sent him a text yet today.  Did a couple of calculations earlier—no one is _entirely_ random in their actions, Miss Adler, there’s always some pattern—and figured out that this ten-minute window would be the most likely time to receive one.  With John out of the house and his computer entirely accessible, this ten-minute window is ideal for what he’s about to do.

            After opening a video and recoiling bodily at the terrible soundtrack, Sherlock opts to entertain himself with pictures alone.  Some people do that, don’t they?  Beat off to still images of naked women in compromising positions?  He scrolls through them, shaking his head.  Oh, John, you are so easily taken in if this is what you enjoy.  All makeup and tricks of light and shaved genitalia and Photoshop.  But certain men have needs, Sherlock supposes.  Simple needs for an endearingly simple man.  For absolutely no reason at all, he settles on the image of a random brunette in the throes of pleasure.

            Time ticking down already.  He’d wasted three minutes scrolling through _pictures_.  Exciting, though.  Adrenaline makes it better, which is the reason he’s doing this in the den, too.  Amplify his chances of getting caught.

            Sherlock undoes his zip, then squeezes a bit of the lubricant onto his palm, warming it up a bit between his fingers.  It’s been a very long while since he’s really used any of these parts.  Arousal: difficult to sustain for long enough.  Always seems to get lost within his own head.  Why bother with sex when there’s so much more delightfully interesting material outside of bedroom walls?

            Even so.  Touches himself, gently.  Looks at the brunette.  Flaccid as ever.

            What is he missing here?  More pressure?  No, no, he’s sure the issue is related to frame of mind.  No way can he possibly get off when he’s thinking about the precise focus of the camera lens required to make this woman look so hairless.  That’s not what simple people think.  John Watson would look at this image and be happy to see a vagina.

            Think.  Think, _think_.  What else is on hand?  Not about the images at all.  He has the laptop that John caresses daily, the phone that Irene Adler touched.  He leans back in his chair, spreads his legs apart a little.  Touches.  Thinks.  Thinks of John pressing down on the keys of his laptop, Irene programming her voice into his phone.  The pads of John’s fingers, gentle.  Irene’s breath against the phone.  Soft.

            That’s enough to go on, don’t you think?  Sherlock closes his eyes.

            Confusing mental images rise to the surface of his brain all at once, bursting forth like so many bubbles.  John’s hand on his wrist, and John is leaning too close, his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.  Irene sitting on his other side, looking up from her camera phone.  “We’re all yours,” she says, setting it aside.  One thing that sticks in Sherlock’s memory more than anything: her voice.  Dreams of it.  “Just let us work.”

            Scene.  John is holding the riding crop while Irene watches from the couch, her legs crossed, entirely nude.  “Hit him harder,” she says.  “He’ll like that.”  And John says, “Are you sure?” and yes, John, he’s sure, he’s very sure, look at him, he’s practically begging for it.  Irene reads him well enough—that’s what he needs, an interpreter—so she says, “Look at him, he’s practically begging for it,” and John hits him harder and it’s glorious when John does it because Sherlock knows him inside and out and trusts him more than anything in this world.  He sees stars.  He wants John to know him inside and out, too, know where to hurt him so that hurt is the last thing on his mind.  Irene can probably just tell by looking.  Cheating, somewhat.  Effective anyway.

            Tear me apart and stitch me back together, both of you.

            They don’t listen to him.  Never do.  Always so stubborn.  The scene cuts away to Irene and John on the couch, together.  Very together.  She’s on top of John, _letting_ him caress her breasts—that’s the only way to describe it.  John is enraptured by her flesh, Sherlock is enraptured by his doctor’s hands and the contrast in their skin tones.  She coos at him softly, telling him how good he is when those are the words Sherlock longs to hear.  Sherlock would be with them except he’s bound on the floor, ankles and wrists.  His erection strains visibly through his trousers.  Not jealous, though, not in the least.  Fascinated, instead, by the place where John and Irene’s hips meet, the fluid up-and-down motion of Irene rocking on top of him.  Rhythmic, almost, like a metronome keeping the beat of some especially lewd piece on the violin.

            “Don’t look at me, love,” Irene’s saying, biting John’s ear to make him turn his head.  “Look at Sherlock.”  She nips, he groans—Sherlock groans, too, and he’s not even being touched.  “He’s been so patient, he deserves a treat.  I think he wants to see your face when you come.”

            Scene.  Again.  Can’t even begin to imagine what that would look like.  Something different.  Sherlock sitting up, John behind him—can’t see him but can feel him, would know those hands anywhere.  He’s tried to memorize every line, chart out every callus.  Impossible so far, and they’ve been together six months.  Can feel John’s mouth on his neck, too, the back of it, sucking at the nape, then biting where his neck meets his shoulder.  Sherlock groans and it’s uncharacteristically obscene.  “John, _please_ …”

            “Please what?” asks Irene.  She’s kneeling in front of him, staring into his eyes with such ferocious intensity that he thinks he might fall apart.  Then again, he might also melt from her hand curled around his cock.  It’s so _soft_.  Must use lotion after each client, which would make how many times a day?  No, don’t think about it.  He’s going to fall apart into quarks—up and down and—strange and charm… nothing left of the great Sherlock Holmes but subatomic particles and dust.

            “Going to have to be more specific than that,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s ear while he feels up his side.  Breath is hot and comforting.  “We agreed it.”

            “When did we—ah—agree that?”

            “You were a bit tied up at the time,” says Irene, who leans forward to muffle Sherlock’s verbal gibberish with her mouth.  Sherlock closes his eyes, molding himself to her, feeling _something_ zip up his spine.  When she pulls away, her lipstick remains, staining the minute crevices of his lips.  Permanently, he hopes, although that isn’t realistic.  In the slightest.  Something’s getting in the way of his brain.  Obviously.  “What do you want, Sherlock Holmes?  Do you want John inside of you?”

            Stripped of words, Sherlock just nods.

            Irene glances over Sherlock’s shoulder.  “You saw that.”

            “I did,” John says, kissing the spot just below Sherlock’s earlobe.  “But I’d like to hear him say ‘please’ again.”  Counterproductive, John, when your hand is already stealing over the curve of Sherlock’s ass.  Sherlock might come before you have the chance to _do_ anything.  “He doesn’t say it nearly enough at home.”

            “ _Oh_.”  Irene raises an eyebrow, looking impressed.  “I _like_ him.  We could make something out of him, you and I.”  She guides Sherlock’s hand to her left breast carefully.  Nothing out of the ordinary about breasts, although it’s been a long while since he’s seen them outside of a morgue.  He enjoys hers, though.  Hers yield nicely and are warm and her face changes when he brushes her nipple with his thumb.  “Mmh.”  Sherlock smiles, pleased, glad to see her reduced a little, too.

            She combs her fingers through his hair.  “That’s not how this works, Sherlock.  I didn’t give you permission.”  Despite the reprove in her tone, she kisses him again.  “But you have permission to continue now.  What do you have to say to your doctor?”

            Sherlock brings up his other hand to caress both of her breasts at the same time, and she moans softly—sounds familiar, sounds _real_ —while he says to John, whose erection is pressing against his backside, “ _Please_ , John, _please_ ,” except it’s already too late, he’s bucking forward with his hips, spilling out into Irene’s palm—

            “Please what?”

            “I don’t care, just take—”

            No, wait, that wasn’t coming from Sherlock’s head.  He opens his eyes to see John staring at him from the doorway to the den.  Oh.  Going to have to think, think fast.  Hard after climax.  Wrong word.  Difficult.  Thinking difficult after climax.  “Just take…”  The words don’t fit inside of his mouth.  He looks everywhere but John’s face.  Doesn’t want to read him right now.  “Just take the milk straight into the kitchen, no need to stop here.”

            Dammit.

            “I heard you calling, thought you might need some help…” John says, looking him over.  “Is that my laptop?”

            “Yes,” Sherlock replies, crossing his right leg over his left and hoping that John can’t tell that he still has a hand down his trousers.  A very sticky hand.  “You left it out, so I confiscated it again.”  Something flashes at the corner of his vision.  His phone.  Has a text waiting.  That moan at the end—his ringtone.  Timed that perfectly.  Small comfort now.

            John squints.

            “ _What_?!”

            “Were you looking at porn on my computer?”

            Sherlock licks his lips.  Can’t taste Irene’s lipstick on them now.  “Not really.”  And then, as if that makes everything better: “It was an experiment.”

            “Right, _okay_.”  John sets his bags down and comes over to re-confiscate his laptop from Sherlock.  “You’re not allowed to touch my laptop, Sherlock.  We’ve been over this.  For God’s _sake_ , is it clean?”

            “Of course it’s clean,” Sherlock snaps, not bothering to hide how offended he is despite the fairness of the question.  “When have ever I ruined anything of yours?”  Pause.  “Don’t answer that.”

            John sighs, shaking his head.  The long-suffering hero.  Sherlock’s long-suffering hero, whether he knows it or not.  Sherlock glances at John’s hands, wondering—and then not wondering anymore when John’s voice cuts through.  “Look, Sherlock,” he says, “I’m very happy for you to discover your sexuality or whatever it is you’re doing.  Just please, _please_ use your own bloody laptop!”

            He turns, then, and takes both his laptop and the shopping into the kitchen.  Sherlock is so relieved to see him go that he nearly forgets to check Irene’s text.  He does now, one-handed, tossing the phone up and catching it.

            _It was good for me, was it good for you?  Let’s have dinner._

            Oh.  Glancing around the room for cameras—no, pointless, he’d never find those.  At the window?  No, Irene’s too busy to take the afternoon off, drive over to his house, and commit random acts of voyeurism from his window.  Sherlock sits back in his chair, turning his phone over in his hand.

            Ignores the text, in the end, just like all of the others.  There’s no way she could have known what he was thinking about.  John thought he was looking at women.  Easy enough to deny his thoughts when there’s no—

            _Aahh_.

            Click.

            _Christmas is two weeks away but I’m sure I could find a bow for Doctor Watson._

            “Is she _still_ texting you?” John calls.  “That’s forty-one I’ve heard.”

            And many more you haven’t, John.  Sherlock smiles to himself, wondering if he should write back.  _No, thank you_.  Let fantasies stay fantasy, he has all that he needs right here.  His good doctor and the distant woman who can’t leave well enough alone.

            “Put on some tea, will you?” he calls back, and gets up to go and wash his hands.


End file.
